


folded at the slightest touch

by girljustdied



Category: Misfits (TV 2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-27
Updated: 2010-11-27
Packaged: 2019-10-03 21:06:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17291432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girljustdied/pseuds/girljustdied
Summary: they’re the same person.  that’s what she has no trouble keeping in mind.





	folded at the slightest touch

**Author's Note:**

> post 2x03.

She touches the hair at the nape of Simon’s neck one morning when it’s just the two of them at the community center. It’s not instinct, but it’s definitely something deep in her gut—something just as strong. She needs to know, simply has to reach out and touch and see if it feels the same.

It does. She hadn’t expected that.

“What are you doing?” his hand immediately coming up to touch where her own fingertips had just brushed.

She has to think on her feet—hadn’t thought the action through. So stupid. Future boy’d warned her; she needed to be careful. “You had something in your hair.”

“Oh,” Simon murmurs after a short moment. Probably because he can’t think of anything to actually say. Presses both palms to his head to smooth it down, force every solitary strand back in its weird little place. “What?”

She can’t stop thinking about how he—but not him—looks when she rips his clothes off, all disheveled and—all right, she can admit it—sexy, but still charmingly boyish.

“What?” Simon repeats, locked on. “What was in it?”

“Uh, I don’t know, okay? It’s gone now, let it go, for fuck’s sake.” She’s wound up and her tone is most certainly clipped, but when his brow furrows slightly all she wants to do is press her lips to it. Shit. She’s getting confused. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”

He takes it in. Eyes the same—always looking too deep. She feels like he’s seeing things that he shouldn’t. That he knows the truth somehow. About her. About her and him. Not him.

“It’s just embarrassing.”

“What?”

“The things I say. When you touch me.” Things he never even had the shame to try and take back. Let the words fester instead, a mix of revulsion and pride like a layer of slime on her skin.

It makes her wonder. Sex with him was never like that. No pissing on her tits, cock in her armpit, whatever. Was it a real, concrete difference—or was the future version of this boy holding even that back? How can someone feel so honest and still be so secretive? It’s disconcerting is what it is.

“It’s all right,” she finds herself trying to comfort, an alien feeling. “I don’t mind.”

Simon seems genuinely concerned. “Well, I do. And I think you should.”

He’d told her that she’d fall in love with Simon. This version of him. Put it just like that. She’s not sure how it could be possible, except for the fact that she knows he won’t always be like he is now. That he’ll grow calm, and confident, and strong, and still somehow manage to look at her like she’s the only person on the whole planet. That someday she’ll be able to touch him.

God, she’d missed it. Skin. Hair. Lips. Everything. _Touch._

-

“Would I love that Simon if I’d never met you?” she asks future boy once. They’d spent the night just lying next to one another, her fingertips tracing out secrets on any inch of pale, pale skin she could get her hands on.

“I think so. Yes,” he answers after a long silence. “There had to have been a timeline where I didn’t come back. One that started it all.”

“That’s a mind fuck,” she tries to joke, something unsettling stirring in her chest.

“Yeah,” his grin lopsided. He’s lovely when he smiles. She should tell the other Simon that.

“You shouldn’t have done it,” she finds herself saying. Can’t take it back once she’s started. “Made contact with me like this.”

She can’t exactly explain why, but she knows that it’s true.

“It’s manipulative,” he explains her mind for her. “I know.” Deep breath. “You just have no idea—what it’s like. Seeing you. Seeing you so alive like this, and not being able to be with you. I had no idea how difficult it would be.”

“Please, tell me what happens,” she feels suddenly near panic. “What happens to me? To all of us?”

He stops a tear track on her cheek with his thumb. The sensation tugs at her. “I’ve made mistakes. I’ve made mistakes—but I can’t make that one. Do you trust me?”

She shakes her head violently, her voice a sob, “No.”

Slips on her trainers and leaves.

-

So she’s dangling off the end of a building, screaming for her life—how the fuck does she get into these fucked up situations? Simon reaches down, grabs a hold of her right forearm with both hands over the sleeve of her jumper, careful. Unsuccessfully tries to lift her back over.

“You need to grab onto me!” he screams down at her. “Help pull yourself up!”

“I’d have to touch you!” she wails back. Needs the other Simon. _Her_ Simon. The one who’s strong, the one who’s trained for this, the one who can— “Fuck!”

That, too.

“Do you trust me?”

No. The answer is still the same, doesn’t matter what person. No—no—no—

“Alisha!” he tries to get her attention again, looks completely gutted. Wow.

She doesn’t want to die, that’s for sure. Wants to see what happens, doesn’t want to miss anything. Wonders where the hell future boy is. He had to know about this, didn’t he? Remember it? He’s _right here_ , and this is a moment he’s not likely to forget.

She won’t.

Head spinning, she gives up fighting and reaches up with her left hand to grip Simon’s right arm at the elbow. He gives out a garbled groan but nothing else, and together they manage to get her back up on the rooftop. Let go of each other immediately after.

“Thanks,” she wipes her hands on her dress. Watches him spit out blood onto the pavement. “What the fuck? Are you all right?”

“It’s nothing,” an uncharacteristic lisp in his voice.

Oh. He’d bit his tongue to keep the words from coming out.

“Simon,” her hand reaching out on impulse to touch his face.

He flinches backwards, “Don’t worry about it. We should go.”

God, she could kiss him. But can’t ignore the little voice in the back of her head, taunting, which _him_? Almost does it anyway, but then the rest of the gang bursts through the door to the rescue.

-

“Is it Kelly?” she pants out against future boy’s forehead. Threads her fingers through the short strands of his hair as she shifts teasingly on his lap. “Is she the one?”

“Hmm?” he’s barely paying attention, tongue tracing between her breasts to start a line up her throat. Tries to kiss her, but stops short of her mouth when she doesn’t move to meet him halfway. “What?”

“The one you lose your virginity to, wanker.”

He laughs. It’s a low, amused chuckle that sends a small thrill up her spine.

“Why her?”

“I don’t see any other girls ‘round. And you two—I mean, him and her seem pretty chummy,” she pouts until he leans up and nips at her lower lip.

Sometimes she wonders if he’s got some other power when he does things like that—things that make her feel completely out of control with need. Desire. It’s not just that she hasn’t been close to someone in so long, hasn’t been touched. It’s about the way he does it.

It’s him.

Simon. Not Simon.

She tightens her legs around him. Feels isolated, wants to cling—it’s unbearable, she hates people like that. “What are we doing? This whole situation is really fucking with me.”

“Me, too,” he holds her face in his hands. He glances at his wall of clocks and his eyes get cloudy, dark. “I have to go.”

“Now?”

She searches the wall; the clock with the lowest time counting down still has an hour and thirty-five minutes left.

“What do you have to do?”

He smiles, “You’ll see soon enough.”

No. Not soon enough. Not by a fucking long shot.

-

She shouldn’t be surprised by Simon’s bedroom. Paint it white, add more light, it’d basically be his future wannabe-superhero flat. Not a knick-knack to speak of. Everything so fucking tidy. Nothing like her place, her life. She touches the row of DVDs on his windowsill, fingertips skipping across the different boxes.

“You have any video of me?”

He looks down, and shrugs. He might be blushing. “I have videos of everybody.”

“Gimme your phone,” she orders on a whim. Stretches out her hand palm-up until he presses it there cautiously.

She slides it open, starts a video recording, points it at Simon. He just stands there, looking at her. Those eyes. It makes her feel strange, so she strides forward a step and reaches out towards him half-blind while trying to keep him on camera. For once he doesn’t recoil—just stares, searches her face. She flips open the top and then second buttons of his shirt. Musses his bangs a little.

“There, now you look fit.”

His lips quirk just slightly. Almost—almost—

No. Not him.

“Can I—can I have my phone back?” Simon swallows, “Please?” But when she starts to press the ‘end’ button— “You don’t have to stop it.”

The way he says that makes her hand shake a little bit when she gives it back. Makes her heart thump in her chest. Simon points the camera at her this time, eyes flickering between the screen and her only meters away.

Her hands move almost of their own accord. Plucks the headband out of her hair, shrugs off her jumper, kicks off her shoes—Simon opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything, so she continues—pulls her top off, slips out of her jeans—“Alisha”—no, no stopping now. Unclasps her bra, tugs off her knickers, takes in a deep breath. Forgets for a moment to let it back out.

He doesn’t freak out, doesn’t shy away like she’d thought he might. Just keeps filming her, gaze fixed on the screen of his phone now the only sign of weakness she can figure out. His hand is steady.

“So, what happens now?” she asks slowly. Wants to be teasing, flirtatious, but can’t quite get there.

“What do you want to happen?” his voice like sandpaper. An echo.

Oh, god. “I don’t know. Come here.”

He looks pained at the thought of putting down his camera. Props it up on his desk before moving to stand toe-to-toe with her.

“Do you want to shag me?”

“You’re with Curtis.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

His jaw clenches. Doesn’t reply for a long moment before reaching out slowly with his right hand to touch her hair. Uses it almost as a shield to cup her cheek. Traces the line of her left eyebrow with a fingertip. Skids his knuckles down her throat, feather-light. Stops.

So she starts. Mirrors his actions at first. Hand in his hair, nail trailing across his brow.

“What am I going to do?” she wonders aloud, fingertips hovering over his lips. About this.

He opens his mouth and bites down on the knuckle of her index finger. Careful. Just teeth. Just for a second. Breath stuck in her chest, she leans into him, hands moving to fist in the collar of his shirt.

“Simon?” Future boy?

“Yes?” He looks utterly baffled.

Well, so is she. Fuck.

“I should go,” she stumbles back, grabbing for her clothes. Feels more than naked. There isn’t a word for how bare and absolutely shaken she feels.

“Maybe—” he stops himself. Shakes his head, seems to steel his will before starting again, “Maybe you could gag me. Or something. I’ve read about—”

“Fuck’s sake,” she spits out, gets tangled in her own shirt. Feels his hands helping her untwist it and get her head through. It makes her voice soft. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Okay.”

-

Future boy’s flat is empty. Even the clocks are gone—there’s not one trace of the man who used to live there save for a note lying where the bed used to be. Reads: “I’m sorry. You’ll understand in time.”

He underestimates her—she thinks she understands already. Maybe he cocked up. Maybe everything’s a mess and things are not how they should be any longer. He shouldn’t have taken her home. Never, ever should have touched her.

“Coward,” she mutters to herself. Can’t make her hand turn into a fist to crumple the letter into a ball. Isn’t sure who she’s even talking to. “Freak.”

Folds it slowly, like it’s something delicate. Presses it over her heart and closes her eyes.

Maybe this is exactly what he wanted.


End file.
